


Bad Ice

by Kami_del_Antro



Series: The knight and the scholar [5]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Injury, CanachxCommander, Commandach, F/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23324410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kami_del_Antro/pseuds/Kami_del_Antro
Summary: It's been two years since Canach and Irene decided to spend the rest of their lives together. They have endured the anger of Gods and the Ire of Dragons, and the tangled and dark corners of their own pasts. But when the wind carries whispers of still open, painful wounds, a more powerful will might find use for that they decided to bury.CW for blood, corpses and death
Relationships: Canach (Guild Wars)/Original Character(s), Canach/Female Player Character (Guild Wars), Canach/Player Character (Guild Wars)
Series: The knight and the scholar [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910074
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	Bad Ice

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly the basis for the character growth these two sorely needed since the end of Path of Fire. Obviously, spoilers from every major story beat until Whispers in the Dark.
> 
> In this canon, Canach made a promise to never let Irene go on a deadly quest without him, and will honor his promise until the end of time, whatever Anet said.

As Irene stared intently at Almorra’s sword, Canach seized the chance to contemplate her. All dressed up, in sensible clothes to endure the elements despite being well in her abilities to use magic to protect herself from the merciless storm of the Dragon. Her lips, always warm and inviting, pressed in a hard line as her eyes studied the blade, catching the twinkle of the candles lit up in front of it.

Canach knew that face. He had learned to recognize it. He had learned to cherish it. Under the shadow of the Dragon, she seemed to shine brighter; a beacon in the endless tundra.

“I just-” she murmured, lowering her head. A rebellious petal hung down her forehead. “I never took the time to actually talk to her. I knew of her, of course. I knew her name. But I never…”

Her voice vanished in the icy wind, as she rubbed and twisted her blue gloves around her fingers. Her unease was palpable, even for someone who didn’t know her as much as Canach.

“General Soulkeeper had a rather odd sense of humor; she once asked me if my ‘room’ was up to my standards,” he muttered. Irene glanced at him, but he entertained himself watching the candlelight oscillate in the wind. “She was serious and professional, of course. But she also had these sudden bursts of sentimentality. She was always worried about her soldiers - especially Laranthir. As if they were siblings in arms.”

Without looking, he held out his hand. Interrupting her nervous rubbing, Irene took it, closing her eyes upon feeling his warmth.

“That’s why she was so loved.” A pause, to breathe in, to compose herself. “Thank you, love.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” He finally turned to glance at her, catching her loose petal with his free hand, and combing it backwards over her head with the rest of them. “We have a dragon to kill.”

She smiled, softly snorting a laugh.

“You’re right. We should get busy.”

Their duty was unclear. Steinbrecher had called Irene to help defend a Fortress, but what they had found was ice, and sadness. Mass graves still open; shifty, muttering Vigil soldiers; and a storm that seemed neverending. That seemed to carry whispers from beyond the mountains. As they walked towards the front gates of Jora’s Keep, the soldiers threw glances at them and murmured as they turned and tended to their duties. Canach had, once again, memories about the Jungle Dragon. Rather unpleasant memories this time.

Days had passed since the last time they had seen Steinbrecher, or since they had new orders. And so, they had decided to jump on action unprompted, rejecting the thought of staying on that cursed keep until someone decided to, finally, call.

The wind carried madness within it. The ice reflected dark silhouettes of ages past. The terrible events of Jora’s Keep kept echoing inside its walls.

“We should stick together,” Irene suggested, echoing Canach’s ideas. “The reports indicate that yet more soldiers set off to the tundra, and they have yet to come back. They weren’t covert in their intent, so they probably didn’t attempt to cover their tracks. You’re good at tracking - should be an easy enough task.”

“And you’ve become remarkably good at kicking Dragon’s ass - both metaphysical and literal,” Canach weighed in, making Irene smile despite the grim task ahead of them. “This little escapade should go swimmingly.”

They glanced at each other’s eyes.

“I love you,” Irene said. Canach blinked.

“I know,” he remarked, taking off his gauntlet and raising his left hand. A silver ring, made of delicate vines and with a golden, crescent moon in the center, shone on the weak winter sun. “You married me.”

Irene gave him a weak slap on the shoulder, frowning, but still amused.

“You really pride yourself in ruining the moment, don’t you?” she whined. Canach smirked.

“It’s one of my biggest talents,” he replied. “Besides, would you let me hang on to the last threads of my reputation as a mean, unapproachable villain?”

Irene shook her head. She was always like that - always understanding. Asking for nothing more than his companionship. Some warmth slipped on Canach's gaze as he contemplated her resolute smile. In all honesty, he loved her more than he ever thought he could love somebody.

“Just try not to be a villain when we’re trying to be heroes,” she said, pointing at the road ahead with a gesture. “Let’s go.”

**-o-**

****

The wind spoke. On Irene’s ears, the sound was deafening, but distorted. Like the static that preceded the music from a turntable. As she pressed on in the snow, however, she tried not to think about it. It was what everyone warned them, what everyone murmured about, in terrified whispers.

 _Don’t listen to the voices_.

Bitterly, she was mindful about her advantage in that regard. She was used to shutting the noise out, to ignore the voices. The Soundless mantras, the fight against Mordremoth. Even as a sylvari, she was uncommon. She was… different.

She shook her head, rubbing her temple. It had been years since those thoughts plagued her with such virulence. But with all that was happening, with all the distrust, the danger, the murmurs, it all came flooding back in. As if the feeling was never gone, but merely mitigated. As if her hurt was merely eased, rather than healed.

“I may not be an expert,” Canach suddenly stated, startling Irene. He was contemplating her closely, a slight wrinkle of worry on his brow. “But that’s usually a bad sign.”

Irene struggled to smile, reassuringly.

“I’m well,” she murmured. Canach, however, seemed unconvinced. “We should keep going.”

"Whatever you say, dear."

Again, silence. And the wind molding itself in the shape of words; the storm cloaking itself as whispers. She needed to try and keep focused. She needed to keep on talking.

"Did you tell Laranthir?" Irene asked. Canach frowned once again.

"Laranthir?"

"About Almorra's passing."

"Ah," Canach paused, pondering his chin. "I believe Steinbrecher did already. He'll be fine, I think."

He shrugged, softly shaking his head. For anyone, it would be a done deal. Irene knew, however, that he was awkwardly trying to sneak his way out of the conversation. She stopped, and so did he when she reached out to hold his hand, even if his eyes kept scanning the horizon.

"You should write to him," she said - a soft, loving command. Canach shrugged again.

"Perhaps I will," he murmured. Then, he perked up, staring up at the sky. "We should get moving. A storm is coming."

He let go of her hand, walking ahead. Irene sighed, and shook her head. So many years beside him, and he still struggled with showing any sign of weakness. Even to her.

Or rather, she suspected, especially to her.

As they kept walking in silence, stopping to look for tracks, murmuring directions and suggestions, Irene lamented that tiny, small cloud over her bliss. Canach loved her, and she loved Canach - that was out of the question. The promises they had made to each other helped them endure the ordeals their duty as heroes put them through, again and again.

Irene knew that opening up was something Canach struggled with, and something he had come a long way already. But those sudden moments when he shut her off were needles on her bedding. Unnoticeable most of the time, but painful when stumbling upon them.

"Love," she murmured, suddenly hugging herself as the cold grew stronger around her. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

Silence. But proper silence this time.

Irene glanced up, and noticed that Canach wasn't beside her anymore. Her stomach dropped, as she looked around, trying to find him. 

"Love?" she called, her voice raising out of panic. The storm crawled over the field, and white snowflakes began to cloud her vision. "Canach? Where did you go? Canach?!"

No tracks to follow, no warm hands to hold. Only silence, and the white void that reached out to embrace her.

**-o-**

****

One second she was there, the next one she was gone. Canach turned on his heels, going around in a circle, kneeling down to try and find the impression of her boots. But the white, freshly fallen snow quickly covered any semblance of a track to follow.

It was as if the storm itself was mocking him. He stood up, a grimace on his face, as he shielded his eyes from the gathering snow.

"Very funny, Maggie," he grunted. "But your dear brother did a lot worse. You'll have to try harder than this."

As soon as his words were swallowed by the storm, a new sound made him turn. Swords interlocking, and the loud, animalesque grunting of Icebrood. Canach unsheathed his sword and held onto his shield, advancing quiet, but resolute towards the noise. Kicking Icebrood ass sounded delightful.

Or so he thought, until a familiar yelp reached his ears. Clear as day, despite the storm, he heard sounds of struggle. Irene was fighting.

And she was losing.

Without further thinking, Canach hurried towards the noise, taking a running start to jump on top of an Icebrood brute and taking him down with a clean cut of his whip-sword. The growling of wolves alerted him that he wouldn't be as lucky to have another chance at a stealthy attack, and he covered himself with his shield as an Icebrood wolf tried to take his arm off with a bite. With a grunt, he bashed the beast with his shield, making it yelp before cutting it down.

Another yelp, and a grunt. Canach turned and tried to locate the sound, only to feel an arrow passing by his helmet, whistling on his right ear. He turned back to cover himself, cursing under his breath. There were more Svanir than he thought there would be, covered by the storm their master had sent to aid them.

There was no other option than to reach Irene or perish under the snow. He wasn't strong enough to hold them all at bay. He needed her beside him. He wasn't strong enough to kill them. He wasn't strong enough to save her.

Canach clenched his teeth, and with his shield covering the back of his head, he advanced towards the mist, hearing arrows piercing the air all around him. He was painfully aware of how tense his body was, and dizzy about the sudden takeover by fear. For Canach was used to pain, and wasn’t afraid of dying. But the sudden, unavoidable fact that Irene might die alone in the cold, like Almorra…

He pushed forward, jumping above Icebrood wolves and maiming them with well-placed slashes of his sword. With his shield he pushed an Icebrood warrior aside, bashing a Svanir hunter as he went on faster, and faster, until his legs couldn’t go any quicker with the snow at his knees. He growled and pushed, hearing the calls as if from far away, ignoring the growls and the orders for the clear sounds of battle, and an icy, cold sensation nested on his stomach.

He needed to go faster. Faster! Irene was struggling, and there was no time to call for help. They had been careless to go alone. He had been careless to let her go off without him. But if Irene was having a hard time on her own, Canach dared not to think about his chances with whatever monster Jormag had launched against them.

Finally, the mist faded as Canach stepped on a circular clearing among the fog, and then he saw it. Tall as a tree, and strong as a mountain, an Icebrood Goliath towered above the tundra, swinging its club in front of it. And there, barely dodging its furious strike, a tiny figure stood between it and the world. Irene, teeth bared and a bloody cut on her arm, prepared to strike again, or die trying.

“Irene!” Canach called, but was interrupted by an arrow piercing his shoulder pad. With a grunt, he grabbed it and pulled it out, turning with his shield up to defend himself.

Wolves and hunters streamed from the fog; the endless current of a Dragon’s anger. Why against them, Canach couldn’t fathom - but perhaps the piece of Mordremoth that resided inside Jormag was as vengeful as the Jungle Dragon itself.

And so Canach fought as he knew; he kicked the Svanir away, and cut the Icebrood down, and bashed the wolves up, and slashed and punched and kicked and mauled and grunted as the snow around him turned red and black, thick with frozen blood. Everytime claws pierced his skin he felt more alive, and everytime an enemy went down he felt more focused. He was furious in a primal way he didn’t feel since Southsun; out of snarky remarks and prideful smirks, reduced to the anger of retribution of his youthful days.

He was still powerful, Canach realized. He was still dangerous. And then, a shrill scream cut short by a powerful thud, as the amber blood on his face and arms grew colder, and his mind became clear all of the sudden.

Ignoring the endless waves of enemies, he turned on his heels in time to see Irene launched through the air, amber blood sparkling like gold as she spit it out in the air. She landed in the snow, immobile like a broken doll, like a flower a child might carelessly stomp out. The Goliath raised its club above its head, ready to deliver the final blow. And Canach saw red.

Taking a running start, he jumped in the way of the club, blocking it with his shield. His arm cracked and his shield trembled, but he still pushed away with a furious yell. The Goliath stumbled backwards, and Canach saw his chance; jumping once again, he climbed up the body of the beast, burying his sword on its chest and sliding down its torso.

Blood splattered on top of him; the cold, black blood of a long since dead thing, as he jumped backwards to avoid the Goliath’s club, pounding at the floor in front of him. And without missing a beat, Canach jumped on top of it, reaching the Goliath’s arm and cutting it clean at the elbow.

The beast roared as Canach did, thorns igniting in green fire, as he pushed forward with his shield, pushing the beast back and making it stumble and fall. And, with the anger of one thousand of his kind, the renegade Secondborn ran up the Goliath’s body, burying his sword deep in its throat.

The Goliath roared one last time, gurgling its black, corrupted blood as it died. But before Canach could even relish on his victory, a quiet whimper reached his ears.

In a hurry he sheathed his sword, jumping down the Goliath to find Irene struggling to move. He knelt down beside her, holding her up carefully, helping her sit up as he ignored the searing pain on his arm.

“You scared me there, darling,” he mumbled, forcing out a crooked smile. “But I’ve got you now.”

Irene opened her lips, but only a cough left her throat. Cough, and blood. Canach’s smile dropped.

“Darling?” he insisted, holding one of her trembling hands. She looked up, struggling to breathe, and smiled.

“C-Cah-...” she panted, before bloody, amber tears fell from her eyes. And her head fell limp backwards on Canach’s arm.

The sylvari contemplated her glazed eyes, and felt something bubbling inside of him. Something abominable, unstoppable. Fire itself, perhaps; or maybe vomit, incandescent and unbearable. His breathing became ravaged, and he trembled, teeth clenched, as his face became a grimace of some powerful emotion. Maybe pain. Maybe rage. Maybe sorrow, guilt, loneliness, hate.

But Canach could say nothing before the wind roared in his ears. Inside his head. Inside his soul.

_You’re not strong enough to reach her. You’re not strong enough to save her. You know this. You fear this. She doesn’t have to die alone. She doesn’t have to die on your arms. You can help her. You can save her._

Canach wanted to reach her. Canach wanted to save her. By the damn Tree, he wanted to save her.

 _You need to be more than her shining knight. You need to become what she needs you to be. And I can help you_.

Only then Canach raised his eyes to the wind. The wind that spoke to him in a mere whisper in the middle of the storm; as clear and crisp as the words of the Dream.

_Lay beside your beloved and rest, brave warrior. And let Jormag do the rest._

“You treacherous lizard,” Canach hissed, trying to carry Irene with him. But she was suddenly heavy and cold; as cold as the ice around them.

He looked down to find a tiny blonde girl; as little as Irene, wearing a heavy Vigil armor. Her eyes were white and her skin was purple - she was dead, and had been dead for a long time now.

Suddenly, the storm closed around the sylvari and the dead human warrior, and there was nothing he could see but snow and wind.

**-o-**

****

Irene had the feeling that that, even if she walked for what felt like hours, she wasn’t getting anywhere. The icy tundra didn’t change, and the vague shapes of mountains and forests didn’t seem to get any closer. The storm grew colder and stronger, however, and she wondered if it was even worth it to try to keep advancing. She had to find Canach first. She had to try, at the very least.

As she walked, she tried not to think about the possible outcomes. About what she might find; both on the road ahead, and on the way back. Lost and alone in an unknown land, death seemed more like a certainty rather than a possibility. Not only her own, but of the ones she loved.

Her legs, however, walked ahead on their own, impulsed by the vague need of keeping on moving, of surviving. Like a poison, the cold penetrated her clothes and her skin, and nested deep inside of her. It reached into her body. As she trembled, Irene felt its icy claws closing in to her very soul.

Suddenly, a shape stepped out of the shadows. Irene held onto the hilt of her sword, ready to strike, until the figure stopped dead on its tracks upon seeing her. He was young; a sylvari, like herself. Pale blue, bark-like skin, and a Vigil helmet fitted in a hurry; a little bit bigger than what he needed. For a brief moment, none of them dared to move.

“Please,” the warrior babbled, holding on to his side. Irene noticed an open, bleeding cut, as the sylvari shivered. “Tell me you’re not another illusion in the mist.”

“I’m Commander Irene,” she said, getting closer. “Let me help you get back to the Keep.”

“No!” the sylvari suddenly said, stepping backwards. “My unit. They-... We were patrolling and suddenly got lost. Then they came, and we… we’re under attack!”

Irene hesitated. She had to find Canach… she had to keep him safe. But the other sylvari trembled on the snow, pleading “please” in a quiet, desperate whisper. She had no other choice. She had to help them. She had to save somebody. Anybody.

The thought of losing those young soldiers was unbearable. She didn’t want to lose anybody else. Images of Tonn, Zott, Tegwen, Trahearne, and so many more lost to the Dragons flashed before her eyes, and she had to close them to keep herself centered.

“Alright,” she stated, staring back at the Vigil soldier once more. “Show me the way.”

A brief, thankful smile flashed on the sylvari’s face, before he turned towards the path he had traveled before. With a brief moment of hesitation, Irene followed him into the mist.

She could hear his quick steps, but as soon as the fog engulfed them, Irene couldn’t see the young soldier anymore. As she hurried through the snow she thought the steps were getting closer, but everytime she stopped to check, the steps seemed to stop and fade as well. Cursing under her breath, he began to run, as the steps got closer and closer, and she could see a dark silhouette getting closer and clearer; a Vigil helmet, clearly cut against the white emptiness.

“Wait up!” she dared to call, as the figure got closer and closer. But she stopped dead on her tracks, covering her mouth with her hands, as a gust of wind cleared the fog just enough to reveal the silhouette in its entirety.

The young sylvari stood, eyes open in a grimace of terror, as an ice spire impaled him from the back all the way to his throat. His skin was white with snow as the storm struck him without mercy, and it would soon fill his eyes with white crystals as it stood. Irene tried to breathe, to regain her composure, but something odd was, suddenly, painfully evident.

For the steps she heard were not in front of her, but came from behind. And they were getting closer.

She grabbed Caladbolg Astera from her back, turning and launching a tidal wave of magic that froze the Icebrood wolves and Svanir hunters in the air, just as they attacked. Irene gasped, her hands trembling around her sword, but she managed to jump backwards when the wolves freed themselves from her magic pulse, evading their deadly pounce.

The hunters grunted and whistled orders as they shot arrows, but a movement of her hand raised a magical barrier between Irene and the projectiles. She then bared her teeth, pushing forward with her shield as she roared, and the arrows reversed their trajectory towards the Icebrood wolves.

As they yelped and howled, Irene turned her back on the battle, running towards the vast emptiness of the misty tundra. She had to find the rest of the survivors. She had to save someone. Anybody.

Anybody.

Suddenly, she collided with another body, but as she raised her sword to attack she found a pair of blue, terrified eyes staring back at her. A human girl stood in front of her; a charr, an asura, and a norn behind her, all sporting Vigil armor and weaponry.

“Praise the Gods!” she cheered, lowering her weapons. “Our little scout brought us help!”

They cheered, as Irene still tried to believe her eyes. They were okay. They were safe. They had a chance.

“Where’s Caradoc?” the human asked, glancing behind Irene. “Is he on his way to the Keep?”

“He’s dead,” Irene sighed, her face a mask of sternness. The cheering stopped, as the human’s hopeful smile vanished from her face. “They’re coming. Be ready.”

She turned, sword and shield in hand, as the rest of the survivors tried to compose themselves to keep on fighting. The human trembled, swords in hand, as she stepped forward towards Irene.

“Is there anybody else looking for us?” she inquired. Irene shook her head.

“Just me.”

“I see,” she mumbled, dropping her shoulders for a brief moment before taking a deep breath. She then turned towards her unit, face stoic despite her trembling hands. “Form up! You heard the Commander: we’re on our own. Let’s not disappoint her!”

The charr roared as he dropped to one knee, rifle ready to fire, and the asura whipped out his pistols and turned them on his hands, turrets at the ready. And from the mist ahead roared monsters, and men who desperately wished to become one.

At Irene’s mark, they launched their attack; fighting like cornered beasts against the hordes of the Dragon, for they were cornered, and death closed in with each wave. As they protected their circle with all their might, Irene tried not to think, not to remember. Those young warriors counted on her. They needed her. Only she stood between then and certain death. By her will, and only her will, they would live to see another day.

She had fought endless hordes before. In Elona and Maguuma, with Canach beside her. In Orr, with her friends. And even before she was the hero the world thought her to be, back in Caledon Forest, with Caithe and the Wardens at Astorea Village. Back when shadows loomed and the fear of the coming morning froze her heart forever. Back when the Nightmare opened her arms to her, and she had fallen to a pit of despair that seemed unclimbable.

And suddenly, the fight stopped. Enemies turned their backs at them, as if they heard their wretched master’s calling. Irene blinked, confused as the Svanir hunters turned and left, and the wolves scrambled onto their feet to follow them. The Vigil unit exchanged looks, not daring to celebrate whatever horrors Jormag was yet to conjure against them.

“What’s going on?” the human girl asked, but Irene hushed her with a gesture. For from the thick fog something advanced towards them; slowly, deliberately.

“Be ready to strike,” Irene murmured, and she nodded. “On my mark.”

The figure advanced; massive and unstoppable. But there was something vaguely familiar, something that Irene’s mind refused to process. Something in the way the figure moved, in the way it pushed its shoulders with each step. In the way its armor curved and grew, in spines and leaves.

Once again, a gust of wind cleared the fog away, and Irene stood straight as the figure moved. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. It _shouldn’t_.

“Canach?” she murmured. And a known smirk flashed across her husband’s face.

“Ah! The Dragon was right,” he spoke; clear and crisp in the middle of the storm. “You’re alive.”

Something in his voice was odd, distant. A hint of dark irony lathered his words, wrapped in an echo that seemed to reververate on Irene’s mind as in an icy cave. She felt the Vigil soldiers hesitate around her, waiting for her command.

Canach stopped, cracked the joints of his neck, brandishing his whip-sword in one hand, and the Shield of the Moon in the other. His skin glistened in the cold light, and an alien, preternatural vapor left his mouth as he chuckled.

“I’m here to save you, my darling,” he claimed; his voice echoing in the empty tundra. “I’m here to take you all home. Where you belong.”

The human girl raised her sword, and the asura bared his teeth at him. But Irene couldn’t move, lost in the contemplation of the one she loved, alive.

“Where were you?” she said, stepping forward. “Why did you leave?”

Canach cocked his head to the side, and Irene could see something bright attached to his armor. Like gems, ignited with blue fire.

“I lost my way, clumsy me,” he confessed, slowly walking towards the duo. “But I found it again. You said it yourself: I’m a great tracker.”

Irene realized that, as he got closer, Canach seemed bigger, taller. As tall as Giralein, or maybe even more. His build seemed to have changed as well; his arms were thick and strong, and his gait seemed heavier, less agile and nymble. There was something unnerving in the way he looked at her, and Irene realized that he hadn’t blinked once since the fog dissipated.

“Commander?” the human girl asked, but Irene hushed her and shook her head. Her head felt light, and her eyes became blurry with tears.

“Let’s go back to the keep, love,” she pleaded, as tears finally fell across her cheeks. “Let’s go back home.”

“Do you know the way, darling?” Canach asked; his voice descending to the depths of Torment. “Because I do. I know many things now, my sweet, sweet sapling. And I can show you them all, if you join me.”

His eyes. Irene gazed deep into his eyes, and realized that a cold, blue fire ignited them from within. And the jewels she had seen before were not jewels, but open, frozen wounds, mended with ice and cold fire. A sob ravaged her chest, as Canach stood tall before her. His shield, the Shield of the Moon, was frozen in places; its shape, corrupted by ice and blood.

“No,” she pleaded. Canach’s smile widened.

“Let me carry you home, my silent friend,” he offered, as tears flowed down Irene’s eyes. “Nothing can hurt you now. I will save you. Forever.”

Suddenly, Irene noticed she was alone. No friends, no allies, no Vigil unit, lost in the storm. She turned towards Canach, teeth bared and tears falling, and there was no longer a smile on his frozen, dead lips. Only the cold, stoic gaze of death.

“Very well, my love,” Canach said, raising his, now, massive sword. “I’ll have to drag you with me.”

Irene ducked out of the way, her hands trembling, her mind clouded. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. Not Canach. Not him. Why him? It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be true.

But darkness reached out from the depths of her heart, and Canach bashed her with his shield as she cried out in pain, feeling the ice cutting and freezing. She scrambled to her feet and covered herself with Caladbolg, feeling the weight of Canach’s sword descend upon her.

“The world will break,” Canach roared, as their swords clashed. “The crystal Dragon will shatter. And you will be all alone. Aren’t you tired?”

Irene pushed back, releasing a wave of magic that made Canach step back briefly. She knew what she had to do. She knew what was better, for the world and for sanity. But fear crawled up her throat and sealed her words, as the Nightmare reached out once more, and the world seemed dark and cruel.

“Lay down your weapons and rest, darling,” Canach said, pushing up with his shield as Irene jumped out of the way. “The wolves won’t feast on your flesh. Aren’t you tired?”

As she tried to get her footing, she felt Canach’s sword on her back and cried out in pain; her armor suddenly wet with her own blood. It hurt, but she was still able to move. He wasn’t trying to kill her. He was trying to hurt her enough for her to give up. To surrender.

She wanted to surrender. Tears streamed down her face, unable to look at her dearheart in the eye as she blocked his attacks. She couldn’t possibly… she couldn’t…

Finally, Canach hit her with his shield once more as she tried to turn, sending her flying backwards in the air and landing in the tender snow. Before she could get a hold of her senses, Canach pinned her down with his hand, pressing down her throat.

“You’re so used to winning, you’ve forgotten the taste of defeat,” he murmured, raising his sword. “How much it hurts. I don’t want you to hurt anymore. I love you, and all that you cherish.”

As Canach’s sword descended on Irene’s head, however, her image broke in a million pieces, like a mirror. The renegade sylvari stood dumbfounded for a second, before chuckling. For the image exploded with unbound magic, making him stagger back as the real Irene, yelling like a wounded animal, buried her sword on Canach’s stomach; a purple, magical blade extending from her weapon and going through him in a swift motion.

Black, frozen blood dripped from Canach’s mouth, as he fell backwards and lay down in the snow. In front of him, Irene cried and yelled, pulling at her hair, clawing at her face, as the world fell back in a known darkness, as the warmth left her.

And yelling and crying Canach found her, in front of a fallen Icebrood Colossus, hugging herself in a pool of her own blood, and surrounded by the dead, frozen corpses of the lost Vigil soldiers they had gone to rescue.

The road back to the Keep was surprisingly short; a mere ten minutes trek from the nearby flatlands, now devoid of fog, and treacherous snow storms, and whispers. Giralein and Gialinn, Irene’s siblings, ran to get her, blacked out in Canach’s arms. He didn’t say anything; just limped towards the fire, glancing back at Irene, now sleeping near the warmth chimney, every once in a while.

He realized, of course, there was no way they should've survived their escapade. With a shiver he was quick to suppress, he knew Jormag had allowed them to come back. To meditate on their twisted visions. To what end, it was hard to say. And everytime he tried to think, he heard those whispers clear as the light of the Pale Tree on his mind. He felt the dead weight of Irene on his arms.

For the whispers kept on whispering in the icy tundra. Like the static before the music begins, waiting for those willing to heed them… or ready to make them listen.


End file.
